


One Day in December

by ravenousbee



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: ??? - Freeform, Earth-616, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Happy Ending, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I guess???, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, miles morales protection squad, minor character deaths?????, multi-dimensional travels get u fucked up let me tell ya, nOPE its not a two parter its mORE, no beta we die like men, ok no promises of happy endings, pRoBaBlY a TwO pArTeR i said, peter b. parker protection squad, why is no one talking about the aftermath of this emotional bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-03 17:45:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17288564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenousbee/pseuds/ravenousbee
Summary: It’s worth mentioning that Peter Parker’s life has been entirely a roller-coaster of making mistakes. Like when you go to Disneyland, choosing a ride, that is too scary for your own good. Your height doesn’t match the required height, and yet you somehow sneak inside. You’re nauseous, ready to vomit all that HCl stored in your weak stomach, on the person sitting next to you.All in all, by the end of the ride, you have nothing but an empty wallet, a churning stomach and a regretful life.So, it shouldn’t come off as a surprise that Peter B. Parker's gripping Miles' shoulders, well-not Miles-Miles, rather 616-Miles' shoulders, with Aaron quietly ready to attack him in case he hurts Miles."Do you remember me?"





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> SAY IT WITH ME PEOPLE THIS MOVIE IS THE BEST SPIDER-MAN MOVIE and you can't change my mind.  
> hi!!! i'm abandoning studies, other WIPs that have died for more than 2-3 months for this baby of mine that i'm swearing to myself to not abandon, because miles deserves better and peter deserves happiness and even though i'm not gonna give it to them i am still going to appreciate them  
> so  
> the movie's ending was pretty good, cheery, ends with a chapter closed- but has anyone thought of what peter would have to deal with when he's back on earth 616? perfect because i did and it's. just. sad boi hrs.  
> so here's my word vomit in regards to this idea-the first chapter's all sweet stuff and fluff but beware second chapter is gonna be a tough ride
> 
> thanks for reading! i always wanna know if i'm improving or just heading backwards so i would l o v e to see you leave a comment about how this story was <3

“To be fair—” Peter starts, and he can already spot Mary Jane rolling her eyes. “I was just shoving pizzas in my mouth—in my  _ everywhere _ , really. I didn’t have the good ol’ MJ to cook for me.” He points out, a spoonful of the infamous Chowder soup she had cooked.

One day in December, Peter B. Parker sits at his home, with his wife, at a dinner table. Not to mention back in  _ his _ dimension.

“And jumping into another dimension sounded like a good idea to pursue?”

“I have two things to say on that—A, yes, it was. I was alone, MJ! And  _ B _ , I didn’t  _ jump _ into it—it  _ sucked _ me in. Like how you—”

“Stop right there. Not there yet, tiger.” MJ waves her fork at him threateningly, and Peter lets out a laugh, the spoon slipping out of his hand and hitting the ceramics on their small kitchen. MJ starts yelling, not out of spite or anger, just sheer annoyance and adorance, grabbing tissues to attack the soup stains on the ground, and Peter can’t stop laughing.

He’s good. He’s alright. He’s the one and only Spider-man again, swinging across the city, webbing up criminals and sticking Green Goblin wannabes to walls left and right. MJ’s giving him another chance, another date, day after day, and he finally has the courage to go up to Aunt May’s grave and put a single Amaryllis on her grave.

Peter can get used to this again. 

His apartment’s no longer a ghost town of cartons and boxes he never dared open, because there was always this  _ glimmer _ of hope that he’d get back with MJ—and even when the hope within him faded away, the endless hopelessness glued him to his bed, ignoring criminals on TV, hiding in his little coffin of the red and blue Spider-man suit. 

Not eating, not drinking, going out of shape, and even  _ when _ he ate it was cheap, rotten pizza he’d find in a corner of that little room. 

_ Anyway _ , those days were  _ over _ . This is the new era of Spider-man—or, specifically, his dimension’s Spider-man. Gah—the multiverse is as confusing as it sounds and more, to him—Redemption arc? No, he isn’t a villain. Self-reflection sounds more likely. Getting-himself-together was even more accurate. 

And he has only a few spiders to thank for that, he thinks as he tears open another box. Peter Parker, Spider-man Noir. Peni Parker, …Spider...something. Spider school-girl? Peter Porker, —god, it’s come down to thanking a  _ pig _ for that—, Spider- _ ham _ . Gwen Stacy, Spider-Gwen. 

And most of all, Miles. Miles Morales.

Despite himself, Peter sometimes wishes he could’ve pulled Miles from his dimension into his to live together with MJ. Just the thought of watching Miles grow and turn into the  _ future _ , one and only Spider-man made this warmth erupt in his heart that he hadn’t felt in a  _ long _ while.

...Then again. Miles had his own life.  _ Has _ his own life. And so does Peter—not to mention the inevitable cell decay if Peter had pulled Miles down with himself— _ Argh. _ He’s thinking too much into this.

And for what it’s worth, he stops thinking about the other dimensions for a while. No Miles, no Noir, no Gwen, no Peni, and definitely no Peter Porker.

* * *

 

...That’s until the Prowler returns. 

Peter’s dimension’s Prowler wears a different suit. He wears this skimpy green spandex suit, with a skimpier purple mask with bright eyes glowing in the night, and an even _skimpier_ _purple cape._

Peter  _ hates _ capes. 

The gauntlet’s the same—whatever it’s called. The claws are as sharp as Miles’ Prowler, maybe even sharper—probably.

They fight, and Peter fails. He tells himself it’s only because of his return to the career he abandoned a long time ago, his body’s still as sore as fresh bruise and his mind’s still high on all that junk food he ate. 

Some part of his mind tells him it’s because he can’t forget Miles’ eyes when he rushed into alter-May Parker’s house, on the verge of crying, panicking and his voice cracking. “ _ My uncle _ — _ he’s the Prowler he tried to kill m _ —”

Peter shuts the voice down. Tells it that everything’s over, Miles is an illusion who marched into his life—well,  _ he _ marched into Miles’ life,  _ literally _ marched into his dimension—and now he’s gone, only leaving good memories behind and  _ maybe a bit of a bitter taste. _

“Sometimes I think I might’ve imagined the whole thing.” Peter confesses one day to MJ, she’s lying naked in his arms and he’s holding on too tightly, afraid of making the same mistakes all over again, losing the only person who’s keeping him sane.

“I mean—there was a  _ pig _ , a spider- _ pig _ .”

She lets out a laugh, body shaking against his with quiet giggles. She stops, probably trying to take in what Peter said before he cracked that stupid joke.

“Then what made you change your mind?” Mary Jane whispers quietly in the dead of the night, sleepily, a small yawn escaping her and Peter knows it’s time to shut his mouth and let the lady get some rest.

“...I don’t know. Maybe I missed you so much that I made myself the incarnation of an inspiration.” 

He runs his hands through her hair, sighs, and turns so that he’s holding her, yet he’s facing the ceiling. 

Peter doesn’t sleep for a week.

Which says  _ a lot _ , for a guy who slept  _ all week _ just about a month ago. 

He’s losing weight—which is a good thing, his suit was starting to be too tight anyway—but  _ maybe _ not in the way that him and MJ would’ve approved. Maybe not by swinging around too much. It’s just a bit too hard to swallow food when you have memories from another dimension pouring out in your vision and whispering to you when you’re standing on the highest point in New York, about a little kid he left behind. 

“You were doing so good.” She says, looking at his untouched food and the bags beneath his eyes. Peter looks up, and he sighs, leaning back against the wooden chair. “I know. I’m sorry I just—I just don’t feel—”

“Peter, maybe it  _ was _ a dream.” MJ whispers, hands on his, drawing small circles on his thumb. Peter shrugs, picking his fork to eat  _ something _ . She keeps her hand on his, and it’s comforting. The physical proof that she’s there, unlike these people he has in his head—

* * *

 

His suit fits perfectly, mask covering his identity, unlike the Peter he sees in his dream, another dimension—who dies and has his face shown to the entire world as the ordinary person who decided to save a few.

Ordinary. What an obvious lie. 

He swings around the city, goes to the subways, ignoring the graffitis on the wall and going to where he once saw—where the so-called Collider was. 

Was.

It no longer is there. Or, it never  _ was _ there. 

Something  _ else _ that he sees, although, is this greenish-purple figure crawling through the vents, jumping down, and a purple cape follows him around. 

_ God _ , Peter would do anything if it just meant ripping that cape off.

The Prowler pulls his mask off, brown skin revealed in the dim lights of the subway, and he slips out of the cape— _ thank god _ —and slips into a pair of sweatpants, puts on a shirt and a jacket. A regular New Yorkian. Who looks like he’s definitely not a part-time criminal.

Now, point is, Peter B. Parker makes a lot of mistakes, and today is no special. So he decides to follow the guy as he walks back through the subways, and Peter follows behind after, swinging and crawling up the walls.

The man reaches a high school.  _ Visions Academy _ . Looks, and sounds like a high-prestiged school with obvious academic levels. Probably a school he would’ve gotten into, Peter thinks.

The guy leans against a parked car, bringing out his phone and texting someone, puts it back in his pocket, and waits. 

And so does Peter, until the doors open, a sole kid, black skin and black hair runs out, smiling smugly, hands digging into his backpack and handing the older guy a can of red spray paint. The Prowler pats the kid on the back, running off soon after.

Even villains can have people they care about. That’s been proven to Peter since ages.

But then the kid stays around for a bit longer, in front of the entrance, looks up, eyes finding his and—

The kid—no,  _ Miles _ , stares at him, keeping his gaze, jaw falling at the sight of the amazing  _ Spider-man _ , while this  _ amazing _ Spider-man is amazed with something else entirely.

It’s Miles. Morales. Miles Morales. The kid he met in another dimension, the kid who was so scared of his uncle and grieved, the kid they left alone only for him to come back and save them later at the Collider, it’s the kid he’s  _ so pro _ —

Peter runs away, before Miles can say anything,  _ do _ anything. He swings away and doesn’t look back until he’s crawling through the windows into his bedroom, MJ on their bed, writing her reports for her new boss. 

“Not a dream.” He gasps, MJ looks at him with concern. “I saw him—not him, not  _ him _ I saw another  _ him _ —” 

“Pete?” MJ mutters, putting aside the laptop and walking up to him, holding him, and Peter feels like he’s glitching away, his cells decaying, dying away, and he thinks of Miles, alone in another dimension, not knowing whether Peter’s even alive or not.

“Who did you see?” 

MJ says after a little while of caressing his hair, letting him pant into her dress and for that little episode to reside.

“Miles. The kid. The, the young one—”

“Spider-man?”

“Spider-man—Yeah,  _ yeah _ , but not him, it wasn’t—it wasn’t  _ him _ .”

“A different dimension?”

“My dimension. N—not his, not the one I—”

He stops, covers his face with his hands, ignoring the smell of sweat and dirt. He gives himself a minute, two minutes, maybe fifty-five, actually, since when he looks up the clock’s gone from 4:03 to 4:58, MJ’s in the kitchen, sound of the pan hitting the oven echoing in their lonely apartment. 

He takes off the Spider-man suit, falls on the bed, and doesn’t wake up until twenty-six hours have passed.

* * *

 

That night, Peter dreams. 

He dreams of putting on his mask, blonde hair getting into his eyes, annoying him. 

There’s the Green Goblin, however  _ much _ more of a weirdo compared to  _ his _ Green Goblin. 

His head’s pushed in a mess of glitches, and he sees uncle Ben, but not  _ his _ uncle Ben. He sees May panicking as she spots him with the mask on, but not  _ his _ May. MJ kisses him and holds him close, and together they enter a new apartment—

Not his—

Nothing is  _ his _ —

Nothing in this universe is h—

...Then comes a black, short boy, panicking, and he hears himself whispering through the pain that the kid should hide himself, his identity, and just save the world with a small USB drive. He feels concern, worry, panic,  _ pain _ ,  _ failure _ .

Then the Prowler comes up—different Prowler. Like the Prowler he met when he was in Miles’ dimension, or that stupid dream that has messed with his head.

Kingpin mourns, and Peter hears himself bitterly spelling out the truth.

_ They won’t come back _ .

Something  _ hits _ him, painfully, and he hears the  _ crack _ , feels the warm blood run down his face, an ugly mix of tears and plasma. 

Peter dies, and then he wakes up, next to Mary Jane, who’s already awake, looking at him sweetly before her face twists into a concernful expression. 

“You okay, tiger?”

“MJ—” He pants, swallowing as much air as he can. “I’m not, blonde, am I? Or have blue eyes? Or—Or is— is May  _ alive _ ?”

Mary Jane goes quiet, strange for a quirky, smart girl like her. She stands still for a few moments, lips pursing and eyebrows furrowing before she slowly shakes her head. Peter runs a hand through his hair, panicking, trying to figure it out—

Did he just dream of himself in another dimension?

He wants to scream into his sleeves until he falls asleep again, but MJ’s sitting there, worried, biting her lips, hands clenching the white fabric of their quilt, and Peter musters a smile, one that looks and  _ feels _ genuine to MJ, probably. 

“Man—such a shame, huh?” He laughs, hiding his fists under the quilt. “Would’ve looked much better. Much more handsome too—maybe she would’ve beat some sense into me before I, did the do, y’know—”

Mary Jane looks like she doesn’t buy it at first, but then she laughs, and it feels like living again to Peter to hear that sound. “Yeah—it’s over now, though, yeah? I’m alright with the brown gene. I’ve heard brown eyes and red hair go well together.”

* * *

 

Once again, it’s worth mentioning that Peter Parker’s life has been entirely a roller-coaster of making mistakes. Like when you go to Disneyland, choosing a ride, that is too scary for your own good. Your height doesn’t match the required height, and yet you somehow sneak inside. You’re nauseous, ready to vomit all that HCl stored in your weak stomach, on the person sitting next to you.

All in all, by the end of the ride, you have nothing but an empty wallet, a churning stomach and a regretful life.

So, it shouldn’t come off as a surprise that Peter dressed up like a literal thug—well, as professionally as he could for a guy whose entire wardrobe is composed of dirty sweatpants and occasional red-blue suits. The spider-shed doesn’t have many appropriate outfits, considering all the guy needs is his endless—well, not in this universe, it ain’t endless. Maybe ten suits at  _ most _ . Hey, don’t judge. Peter B. Parker struggles helplessly with financial issues—collection of spandex suits.

Acting like a street artist! Who would’ve thought? Peter Parker, a superhero who despises children with such a strong passion that he let go of his wife over it.

_ And _ he never made that Christmas album he promised a recording studio. Bailed on them after regrets got to him before he could finish the song.

Sounds like a dick-move when you put it like that, doesn’t it? 

MJ adjusts the stupid hoodie with neon design, gives him her trademark smile, white teeth showing through red lips. He leans in, presses his own against hers and pulls back, sighing.

“Is this a stupid move?”

“It might be your worst one yet, tiger.” She says with an amused smile. “But, if it’s to get yourself some peace with a kid that you’ve met his… alter-self,” She pauses, pursing her lips, confused by her own words. “I suppose I’m on team Spidey.” 

“And that, sweetheart,” He says, caressing her cheek. “Is all I’ll ever,  _ ever _ need in my life. Wish me luck.”

“I always do.” 

New York from ground-level is  _ terrifying _ . Skyscrapers are higher than he remembered, people are more arrogant than he last walked along them. Swinging among the buildings and only bumping into drones every once in a while—it’s  _ much _ better than this.

Not to mention the looks he’s getting from people. Well, for a good reason, truthfully. He looks like a homeless person who just got out of prison and is still searching for that wettened box he slept in.

Peter scoffs. “Really?” He mutters to himself, and starts running towards the subways, down the stairs, and then finds himself at the beginning of a dark, long tunnel.

When he hits dead-end, he looks up to see graffitis,  _ all _ over the walls, just like the other universe he was in. There’s the shadow of a man, a boy, painted in black. There are letters around the hollow shape, and Peter can  _ guess _ ‘Expectations’ is written in… some, artistic matter.

Whatever.

Spider-man doesn’t do art. 

Spray cans on the floor, emptied or full, papers on the ground, torn to pieces with hundreds of little sketches onto them. There’s a little note drawn on the wall with black and red spray paint, spelling Aaron and Miles.

Aaron. 

The Prowler.

Peter sighs, shaking his head and looking away, trying to figure out what to do for the time being. At least, to figure out a plan for how to introduce himself to Miles, to Aaron without seeming too uncomfortable with his totally-unknown-secretive identity.

_ God _ , Peter doesn’t even want to begin imagining how that sequence would go. Facing a villain and acting like a friend—fucking—is this what Spider-man had become?

“Shut up.” Peter whispers to particularly no one, turns back facing the wall filled with dried, possibly toxic paint, looks at Miles’ signature, finally with a fully functioning brain so that he could get to plannin—

“Who the heck are you?” 

A high-pitched,  _ pre _ -puberty voice demands, and Peter turns around faster than he’d like to admit, coming face to face with a teenager he’s been searching for all this time—

“Miles—” He breathes, and Miles steps away, grip on his…  _ admirably _ heavy math book.

“How do you know my name?” Miles stutters, as anxiously and nervously as the other Miles.  

“No no—” Peter struggles, trying to keep himself from causing an even bigger mess. “Miles, I meant—I travelled  _ miles _ to get to here—whose name is  _ Miles _ anyways? Your parents named you after their favorite road or something?”

Miles’ nervous expression vanishes in a second, replaced with an annoyed expression and a suspecting eyebrow being raised. 

Up-top, Spider-man.

“...What the—”

“Miles? You talkin’ to yourself now kid?” A deeper voice says, and Peter’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of the dark man. Aaron, Miles’ uncle, street artist, somewhat a vigilante, and not to mention—the  _ Prowler _ .

“Where the hell did you come from?” Aaron says, somewhat managing to be both threatening and friendly at the same time.

“Uhh—” Now it’s Peter’s turn to stutter nervously, hands gripping at the hem of his  _ unfashionable _ tank top.

“It’s—a long story.” 

Yeah, a story about multi-dimensional travellings, getting attached to kids, searching for your—well, someone  _ else _ ’s kid in  _ your _ universe—not like anyone would call him a mental—

He’s  _ so _ screwed.

 


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miles and Peter confront each other.  
> Better put, Mary Jane confronts Miles for Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> h i i'm alive-  
> FIRST OF ALL, HOLY SHIT, 92 KUDOSES, I'M WEEPING THIS MEANS A LOT TO ME THANK YO U  
> All of your comments and kudoses have been a constant motivation and i hope that i continue to deliver what you'd enjoy each chapter :')  
> enjoy!! a bit darker in this one, still not full-on angst, i'm trying to be like the movie where there's pain but,, there's a hint of comedy with it that sneakily hides it  
> but yeah  
> simply put in this chapter we realize peter parker a)likes to pronounce hard words b)sucks at lying and miles : hates pronunciations  
> if it seems like peter cant focus on something and his brain is all over the place, it's intentional. guy had a ride in another universe and came back and it's tough man  
> also maybe its because my own brain is all over the place :''))  
> .....eNJOY  
> i'll try to get the next update out by next week!
> 
>  
> 
> edit: i forgt to mENTION   
> there’s now a spiderverse server on discord! we’re not too crowded rn but hey we’d love to have u   
> discord.gg/WcznTG6

“So let me get this straight—”

“Mhm.”

“You’re a— _ were _ , a renowned artist in Guanajuato—”

“Correct.”

“You came to  _ Brooklyn _ ,”

“Yep.”

“To gain some experience from  _ our _ artists so that you can… work better, when you return to Guanjian—Guanjuta—Guan—”

“ _ Guanajuato. _ ”

“Wherever it is—and you came  _ here? _ ”

“Woah kid, you got it all right! Good kid you’ve got here!” Peter says, trying to sound as enthusiastic and...well, realistic as he can. Aaron squints at him, unwrapping an old, bloodied bandage from his left hand and rewrapping a new one. 

“For… learning art better? Man that’s just  _ absurd _ , no offense.”

“None taken—is that a yes or no, kid? Older… kid?” Peter asks impatiently, looking at both Aaron and Miles.

_ Ah, must be hard being the Prowler and a supportive uncle. _

Now to think of it, why are Spider-men’s uncles all so miserable? Well, except for Peni, but he’s sure that’s just because she didn’t  _ have _ an uncle. ...Was he named Benjamin? 

Miles pouts, math book still firmly in hand, face filled with suspicions.

“My dad’s a cop.”

“Yeah I kne—”  _ Not in this universe you don’t.  _ “—w that  _ not _ , what… a surprise.”

“If he finds out about this, both uncle Aaron and I are  _ screwed _ .”

So is Peter! God, why did MJ ever let him get out of the house? 

“Can’t stay with us, brother.” Aaron says, voice  _ much _ deeper than Miles’ and it’s a complete turn from how the friendly little kid was taking the situation. “Gotta go. Things will end badly for both you and I. Not to mention Miles.” He gestures to the shorter one, wrapping a hand around his shoulders.

Peter sighs, shoulders slumping. Miles gives him a pitiful look, like the naive and kind kid that he is, while Aaron eyes him suspiciously. Well, no less to be expected from  _ the Prowler _ . He stands up, hands in the pockets of his half-torn jacket, shrugs, and kicks an empty spray can away.

“Well, I thought Brooklyn would be a bit more welcoming than… this.” He walks past Miles, pulls a paper out of his pocket, and shoves it into the kid’s pocket. Aaron doesn’t seem to notice, he  _ is _ Spider-man after all. Miles  _ feels _ it, stiffens up, shoulders tensing, and he looks like he doesn’t know whether to call Peter out on that or tell Aaron or just keep quiet.

Miles chooses to stay silent. 

_ Thank god _ .

As a final effort to try and gain  _ this _ Miles’ trust, he puts a hand on his shoulder, offers a tired smile, a  _ desperate _ one, honestly. 

Then he walks out, towards the station, and hides in a stall, changes into his suit, runs out, and aims towards the highest building.

He somehow reaches Empire State building, takes off his mask, taking in the fresh air and looking over New York from one-thousand feets above. Air barely goes through to his lungs, and the panic is finally catching up with him from all the adrenaline of just  _ finding _ Miles and  _ seeing _ him and  _ talking _ with him. 

“God—” He buries his face in his hands, sitting down on the glassy surface, faced away from the sun and hidden from the world. “I  _ really  _ need to stop—” 

He stays there until the sun hides itself from him, skies looking like MJ’s make-up palette, a mix of all purples and pinks and reds and  _ any _ color that exists. He looks up, eyes the shadow of the moon peeking through the east, and he leaps.

* * *

 

“How did it go?”

“Honestly? Horrible. I swear—god the last move, MJ? That was  _ horrible _ .”

“Horrible… how?”

His fork falls on the ground again, this time pasta smeared against the tiles. MJ curses. At least this time she’s calmer, maybe trying to be considerate for Peter’s sake.

“I shoved my address in his pocket.”

“You did what—?” MJ snaps, that damned piece of pasta falling on the floor again, pesto sauce spreading across the white tiles, giving it a gross green texture.

“Listen—”

As for Peter, his hair is disheveled—well, not that anyone can  _ see _ that mess. The mask does a good job of hiding three days of untidiness.—he hasn’t showered in three days—reason why he’s been camping on the couch. He’s not allowed back in the bed unless he cleans off that garbage smell.

He just can’t bring himself to walk and go to the shower. Don’t judge him, this is his first meal after three days.—he’s sleep deprived, and all he’s done is watching Animal Planet show how Sea Catfishes keep their babies in their mouths to protect them from danger.

How dedicated can you be to parenting? First Seahorses, falling in love and never separating, and now Catfishes. 

Aquatics are the perfect race for Peter, he concludes. 

Why can’t he just turn into a Salmon right here and now?

...Ah, MJ can’t turn into a fish.

God, he’s tired.

“Pete?” MJ’s voice breaks through the barriers again, her hand in his hair, pasta forgotten on the ground, and he leans closer to MJ, hiding his face in her sweater and staying there while she combs his hair with her fingers like May did when he was younger.

“You sure you want to do this?”

He doesn’t respond, lets out a breath he’s been holding and enjoys the calm embrace of his wife for a little while longer.

* * *

 

Two weeks later, Peter has got a premature grip on his life, kicking villains into prison cells, and actually cooking for lunchtime whenever he’s at home. MJ tells him that his cooking is  _ terrible _ , but it has improved over time and progression is all that matters.

There are no signs of the little black kid and his scary villain-uncle and their spray cans, and Peter’s convinced that maybe, in this universe, he and Miles aren’t supposed to meet. To have the same relationship as the other universe.

And it’s alright.

Truthfully, he’s been dealing a lot better since Miles involuntarily left his life. There’s no longer a kid to stress about—well, some random guy’s kid, MJ unhelpfully supplies. Sooner or later they’ll be taking care of a toddler or two and keeping them from sticking a fork in an outlet. Fun. Totally not terrifying.

Or, that’s how Peter and probably MJ wanted everything to be like.

Life, however, doesn’t give a shit about what Peter and probably MJ wanted, but rather goes on its own accords and presses the doorbell, obnoxious ringing echoing through the house.

“Coming! Coming—jesus christ give it a break bud—”

Peter opens the door.

Miles looks up, staring at him with an unsure expression, clutching a piece of paper in his hands.

Peter stares back with a horrified expression, clutching an oven glove in his hands.

“Miles—”

“Mr. Parker—”

“What the fu—”

“Guanja...nta? Guanjanta guy—”

“It’s  _ Guanajuato _ —”

“You wanted help, I’m gonna—”

Peter closes the door, taking a deep breath, sweat gathering at his eyebrows while he tried not to scream. Seriously? Just as he starts to  _ heal _ and detach himself from everything that had gone on in the other universe, life strikes again with an unpleasant surprise.

Well, honestly, he’s happy to see Miles here. 

Just that it’s not the Miles he knew, and it’ll never be the Miles he knew. 

That Miles is in another universe, saving the day in his little artistic suit, probably getting extra web-fluid from aunt May, and doing graffitis all over the streets of Brooklyn.

This Miles? This Miles is  _ clueless _ about anyting related to Spider-man, anything related to webs and enemies and the  _ Prowler _ —

“Who was it?”MJ comes quickly to check who it was, and upon seeing Peter in that state, she quickly pulls him aside, shoving him into the laundry room with a pout. “ _ What _ are you doing?” 

Peter takes a deep breath, lets it out, takes another, lets it out—

“You  _ never _ learn how to be human, Peter Parker—” She mutters heatedly as she opens the door, Miles standing behind the door with a disappointed expression, mumbling to himself.

“ Estúpido — idiota, oh Dios, el tío Aaron me va a  _ matar _ _ — _ ” Peter peeks from behind MJ’s shoulders, eyebrows furrowed as Miles finally stops kicking the herbs at their door, and awkwardly looks up at both of them.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to kick them, it’s just that your… friend? Guy from that GJ place?”

“Guanajuato.” Peter mutters childishly, glaring at Miles through the red of MJ’s hair.

“Yeah that—hey man, what the hell? You don’t just shut the door on my  _ face _ .” Miles protests, stepping forward with his hands moving around in the air. God, he’s as fragile as the alternative-Miles.

“You appeared out of nowhere! Why  _ wouldn’t _ I do th—”

“Because you invited me!”

“Kid, you  _ zapped  _ me the first ti—” 

_ Oh. No, he did not. _

Miles tilts his head, trying to comprehend Peter’s petty tantrum. “ _ What? _ ”

“Okay, time-out, kids.” Mary Jane says, voice louder than theirs and more demanding. She looks at Miles, gives him a sweet smile and opens the door furthermore. “Tea, sweetheart?”

* * *

 

Miles sits in front of him on the couch, playing with the pinkish china in his hands, trying to blow on the hot liquid so that he can drink it. Once in a while he sneaks a peek at Peter, which Peter responds to with his endless, somewhat unsettling stare.

MJ clears her throat, picking up a piece of sixty percent dark chocolate, putting in her mouth and sipping her tea.

“So, Miles, why’d you come here, hon?”

_ Of course _ she’s good with kids. 

“Your uh…” Miles pauses, looking at Peter, chewing on his lips. “...boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually.” Peter retorts, somewhat defensively. He didn’t go through an entire character arc in  _ another _ dimension to gather the courage, apologize to MJ, propose to her, only to be called her boyfriend. 

“Husband—yeah, um, said he’s here to learn… graffiti art? I don’t know ma’am—it sounded really strange to me back then but I kinda thought about it—it wouldn’t  _ harm _ to try and te—wait a second,” He abruptly ends his little speech, looking around their house. “Are you from Guanoj—”

“Guanajuato—”

“—uto too? I mean, I’m not doubting it or anything,” He holds his hands up as if to show he’s not accusing them. “But this house looks like you’ve lived in it for years or something—”

“You’re right, actually, Miles.” MJ says with that sweet smile of hers, refilling Miles’ half-empty teacup and putting a few butter cookies onto his plate. Miles looks at the cookie suspiciously, and then back up at MJ.

Good, Mary Jane Watson is taking care of the situation and as far as Peter’s aware, MJ always finds a way to make things go his way, and makes the situation infinite times better for Pet—

“My husband actually lied.”

—what? 

Peter turns so quickly his head almost hits the wall behind them, glaring at MJ although she doesn’t spare him a glance as she keeps smiling at Miles, who’s,  _ unsurprisingly _ , glaring at Peter. “Lied? What do you mean? Then why did you—why did you bring me here man?”

“First of all,” Peter turns back, pointing his index at Miles. “ _ I _ didn’t bring you here.  _ You _ brought yourself here!”

“Yeah, because  _ some random guy _ gave me his address!”

“Yeah. Random guy. You’re the stupid one here, kid—”

MJ’s hand flies in front of his face, covering his mouth, and holding her other hand towards Miles to make him stop. Miles calms down, shifts to the other side of his chair, uncomfortably leaning away from Peter’s view. “So why did he come for me then? Why did you—”

“My husband’s  _ very _ interested in art, you see—he’s just not  _ go _ —”

* * *

 

“— _ od at it, Miles. Look at my husband, miserable poor poor POOR manchild! _ Thanks, Ms.  _ Watson _ .” Peter says, voice high-pitched and cracking, a pre-puberty specialty that graciously never left Peter, mocking MJ. 

MJ, however, is smiling, a sly, unsettling smile that she puts on when she manages to get through the  _ MJW  _ way, and she’s rubbing a wet rag across the dining table, humming a tune. “ _ Teach him, please! _ What’s next, paying a fucking thirteen year-old—”

“I’m pretty sure he’s older, tiger.”

“—whatever, he’s a kid! His voice sounds like nails scratching against a blackboard—”

“I’m  _ sure _ you didn’t think of him like that in the other... earth?”

“—Earth, yes, and yes, I did, but I didn’t have to lie to that Miles about where I came from! He had superpowers! This boy doesn’t—and hey, by the way, thanks,  _ traitor _ —”

“You’re such a  _ baby _ , Peter! No one was gonna buy that G...Guajo—”

“Guanajuato! How hard is that word?”

“Very, and I’m sure no one would’ve believed you after your ‘art lessons’ were done.”

Peter pauses, sighs, and slumps against the wooden chair, running a hand through his greasy hair. MJ flinches, eyebrows rising towards the direction of his bathroom, silently commanding him to take a shower after… how many days? 

May’s probably rolling in her grave. 

Safe to say that when MJ told Miles that Peter had discovered his art in the subways, and had decided to stay around until the original artist arrived, Miles didn’t believe it. It took too many words for MJ to put together in order to convince Miles, that Peter meant well, and the only thing he  _ needed _ , was for Miles to tell him what to do when he’s holding a can of spray paint.

Which Peter definitely doesn’t need, as he does not enjoy art as much as he should, or maybe as much as most people do.

Deep down he’s willing to try for the sake of his own mental health and Miles in another earth.

“Do you think… his uncle, will die in this universe too?” 

By his hands? By another villain? Kingpin’s doppelganger? 

Mary Jane stalls for a while, not replying and fidgeting with the dirty rag in her hands. 

Why did he ask  _ her _ that? Poor gal wasn’t even around when Aaron got shot. 

He takes a deep breath, rubbing his eyes and pushes against the wooden frames, standing up and heading towards his room to take a shower, get some sleep, and wake up for the sake of Spider-man’s patrols. 

“I don’t know, Pete.” MJ says, finally, just as his foot is against the soft carpet of their bedroom. “I don’t know. It’s an alternative universe, right?”

Peter leans against the doorframe, back facing MJ, listening to her quiet talking.

“Everything’s the same yet… it isn’t.”

“Miles seems the same. Acts the same. Looks the same. A bit more defensive and somewhat dumber—” He says, voice coarse. “—trusting random strangers like this—”

“You’re not a random stranger—”

“In this universe? Yes I am.” He finally turns, facing the redhead. “I’m  _ no one _ to him here. Not a mentor, not a friend, not—not anything. He should be nothing to  _ me _ but—”

He pauses, swallowing the lump that’s forming in his throat, and sighs. MJ doesn’t have to deal with his dramatic episodes. That’s his own business to manage.

He’s so selfish, isn’t he? Always has been. Making this Miles,  _ another _ Miles, come along and teach him ‘art’ just because he isn’t ready to let go of anything that happened in another reality. 

With great power comes responsibility, and Peter has come to entirely ignore  _ his _ responsibilities.

“I’m gonna take a shower.”

Mary Jane nods, voice soft, so considerate and  _ so _ kind.

“Of course, hon.”

* * *

 

That night Peter sleeps, feels Kingpin crushing his skull yet again and the trail of warm,  _ warm _ blood that runs down his cold,  _ cold _ skin makes him jerk awake, hands rubbing against his face like a madman, trying to shake off the feeling of the liquid on his face. 

Rushing out of the bed, he spends more than half an hour in the bathroom, cold water running and hand covering his mouth so that he wouldn’t scream. The pain, the feeling of regret, responsibility, blood oozing from his wound—

Peter is  _ used _ to being injured. Bleeding is part of the job when you’re Spider-man—but there’s just this eerie feeling of emptiness when it’s the last time you ever get injured. When it’s the last time you’ll  _ feel _ anything.

He sits at the dining table in the kitchen at three in the morning, cup of bitter, dark coffee steaming in front of him. 

_ Why is he dreaming of the other Peter Parker? _

It’s like dreaming about anything that has happened in your life, a memory, a flashback—just that it’s not yours.

It’s Peter—it’s Spider-man, it’s  _ him _ but it’s  _ not _ and good gri—”—ef, this is driving me nuts.” He whispers frustratingly, rubbing his eyes and letting the burning bitterness go down his throat.

He goes back to the bedroom, trying his best to sneak under the warmth of MJ’s embrace and the blankets. MJ shuffles around a little as soon as he lies down on the bed, gives him a tired look, but doesn’t ask him what’s wrong when he gets back in bed, and he stays awake until the sun finally peeks from behind the mountains and the pollution that finally took over New York’s skies.

“Patrol?” MJ mutters sleepily from beneath the heavy covers, the only visible remains of her being the mess of a red hair and her forehead. Smiling, he leans down, kisses her forehead and quietly whispers his answer back. Puts on the suit, ignores how hard breathing is nowadays with the mask on.

He opens the window of their bedroom, crawls his way out and goes onto the roof.

It’s around six-thirty in the morning, and there’s this peaceful silence that rules over the city. He drops down on the edge of the rooftop, eyes towards the silhouette of the sun from in-between the skyscrapers. 

He brings his hand up, closing one eye and looking directly at a building at the right of the sunrise, and pushes his middle and ring finger out, and a moment later he’s flying, surfing through all the pollution, free, uninjured, not bleeding and  _ alive _ .

For a moment, he wonders if Miles— _ this _ universe’s Miles dreams of the other earth too.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter won't draw, but he can give the short guy a lift to paint the higher walls.  
> In other words : peter and miles do some graffiti.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all  
> I AM SO SORRY FOR THE ONE WEEK EXTRA DELAY SDLFISJD I'm extremely busy with exams, life is a pain, university entrance exam is a bigger pain, and mental state of mind is a shitty state of mind.  
> but i wrote this!! finally!!! i won't promise that the chapter will be out on time, but i do promise that i'll get it done , soon,,,  
> i am not abandoning this i swear i'm hyped for the ending scene of this story  
> SECONDLY 1K HITS AND 160 KUDOSES *I'M WHEEZING* thank you all so much for the love <3  
> hope you enjoy this chapter! i'd love to hear feedback in the comments c':

A while later, Peter is standing in front of the Visions Academy with a not-so-friendly face.

They arranged a date, thanks to MJ’s consistent persistence.

Aaron was  _ not _ happy about that—”He said he trusts you as far as he can throw you.” Miles says, hands in his pockets, smugly looking at Peter. “Well,” Peter counters, munching on a fry that he stole off the food in the kitchen. “Your uncle is a very strong and muscular man. I’m pretty damn sure he can throw me at  _ least _ twice my height.”

“You’re short.”

“You’re shorter. So is your uncle.”

“You weren’t even there for him to  _ throw _ you.”

“Point being? I’m gonna be there soon enough, kid.”

“Point is if he can’t even throw you, he trusts you _ not at all _ .”

“...Ah.”—not trusting a random, almost forty year-old guy who tangos his way into their lives, asking for free  _ art lessons _ . 

Peter doesn’t blame him—if Miles knocked on his house and said that he wanted Spider-man courses for free, he wouldn’t’ve accepted the offer as well. 

But at the end of the day, the older pals ended up deciding to pick up Miles from school, head to the station, get Miles’ dad’s approval without him  _ knowing _ there’s, A, a stranger involved, and B, Miles isn’t going to get his homework done by night, and C, they’re giving the strange  _ art lessons _ .

In conclusion, at the moment, Peter B. Parker, from-hero-to-zero—thanks, James Jonah Jameson.— hero,  is stuck with Aaron Davis, criminal, the Prowler—loves the color purple. Purple claws, purple cape, purple mask, and a surprisingly green, and very,  _ very _ ugly suit.—in front of a high school, waiting for Miles Morales, 15, short, a body packed with any pre-puberty adjectives that you can think of, to come out of the doors.

It’s  _ too _ quiet. And extremely awkward.

Aaron seems like he doesn’t  _ want _ to start a conversation, but is struggling very visibly to throw in a topic just not to tolerate this silence.

“No Gwenjoe?”

Ah, a lovely topic.

Egad. That’s a new pronunciation.

Peter tilts his head, looking at Aaron with as much despise as he can show without getting the Prowler’s claws through his chest. “ _ Guanajuato _ . Why is pronouncing it  _ so _ hard? No. No Guanajuato. Sorry about that.”

“You’re not so good at keeping a clear name, are you brother?”

“Eh. Something like that. Heard my name’s in the hit list of some country” He shrugs, looking at his watch and then again at the Visions academy entrance door, only to realize he gave away a fact about Spider-man and not Peter parker.

“...For… tainting their walls with… explicit images.”

“...Explicit?”

“...Yeah.”

Aaron glares.

“You better not pull any of those stunts when Miles is around.”

“None! I won’t—jesus,  _ why _ —I wouldn’t.”

There are already  _ too _ many pissed off teenagers outsides, all filled with years of pent-up anger, frustration, and… well, hormones. 

He didn’t do what those fifteen year-olds were doing when  _ he _ was fifteen years old.

...Or did he? Everything’s so foggy between the blonde Peter Parker and his own memories that he isn’t even sure if Aunt May’s actually dead in this universe. 

“Any… particular reason why he hasn’t come out yet?”

“Probably getting a lecture.”

“For what?” He turns, shocked. Miles— _ well, the other Miles _ —had been smart enough—too smart, even. He also didn’t seem like a kid who’d cause too much trouble for the teacher or the classmates—but  _ argh. _ Maybe this Miles is actually a rebel. A bully, eve—

“They think he’s tryna’ drop out or something.” Aaron says, biting his lip worriedly and scrolling through his contacts to call his nephew.”

“Drop out? Why?”

Aaron shrugs, pressing Miles’ name on his phone and bringing it up to his ear. “Not my business to discuss, pal. ‘Think it’d be better for you to ask Miles himself.”

Miles in  _ his _ universe didn’t want to drop out. Or at least that’s as much as he knows.

Just as the first ring goes by, Miles steps out of the academy, sulking and eyes locked on his shoes. A few other kids turn their heads to look at him, some grimacing and some snickering to themselves. 

Huh.

Maybe his new career as Spider-man should be webbing up school bullies.

“And here he come!” Aaron says, a sudden cheery undertone to his previously low pitched, dry tone. He wraps his arm around Miles’ shoulders, pulling him to the sidewalk and towards the subway, gesturing for Peter to follow them.

“How was school?” He tries asking, after Aaron and Miles stay quiet for more than just a few minutes. The awkwardness was  _ too _ much, even for Peter B. Parker.

Aaron gives him a dirty look, and Miles’ shoulders tense, his figure getting smaller and smaller. “G—

Good! Good. Yeah.” His voice cracks, the high pitched voice sounding like an entirely different universe compared to Aaron’s voice just a few minutes ago.

“Oh—good, urm…” 

_ Think of something, Peter. Use that goddamned brain you haven’t touched in years. _

“Learnt a lot, huh?”

_ Oh for fuck’s sake. _

Silence rules over.

Safe to say that after that  _ masterpiece _ , Miles rolled his eyes, getting out of Aaron’s embrace and walking on his own, ready to grab Peter and shove him into the small backpack so that no one would hear his voice again. If Aaron had his Prowler armor, it’s  _ also  _ quite plausible that Peter wouldn’t’ve had his hands, legs, or maybe even head.

Peter decides to shut his mouth for the rest of the way until they finally reached the subways.

* * *

 

They get to the subway about half an hour later, the underground is  _ busy _ , people coming in and out of the train like bees going in and out their hive. Aaron points to the tunnels, and just as the last train for the next hour heads towards its destinations, the trio jump down the rails and towards where they first met.

The infamous hideout of Aaron, Miles, and his uncle’s villainous alter, the Prowler.

He isn’t sure, actually, if the underground station could be the Prowler’s  _ lair _ . But judging by the fact that he suits up in there, Peter’s going to assume there’s a high chance he’s right.

“Catch.” The Prowler— _ Aaron. _ Aaron, not the Prowler— throws a spray can in his direction, and only thanks to his quick reflexes, he catches it before it hits the back of his head. Aaron raises an impressed eyebrow, offering a smile.

Miles puts down his bag, puts Aaron’s jacket so that his uniform doesn’t get paint on it, and points at an blank, glowingly white mural. “Come on rookie,” He says, as if to make fun of him, and goes to stand by the white wall, staring at it thoughtfully.

With a sigh and a quiet  _ fuck you _ to his guardian angels, Peter goes to sit down next to where Miles is standing, lazily joggling the spray can in his hands.

“What do you have in mind?”

“What?”

“What do you wanna draw? Like—politics? Uhh—”

“No politics, Miles, you know the drill—” Aaron’s voice comes from another corner, his back facing them and the light of his phone’s screen visible from over his shoulders.

“Yeah okay—no politics, but what do you wanna draw? What’s your—what’s your gig?”

Gig?

He doesn’t have a goddamn gig.

He’s literally only here to talk with Miles and try to move on from everything that happened in a mirror dimension.

In another universe—

“Multiverse?”

“Maybe like, the sun, ocean for starte—what?”

Both him and Miles pause in the midst of talking, looking at each other. “Multiverse?” Miles asks, curiously, and as if the name isn’t so unfamiliar to him. Well, maybe this Miles learned it at his physics courses too.

“Yeah—I don’t know kid.. That’s the only thing that comes to mind right now.”

“Do you smoke? Your voice sounds  _ too _ raspy for someone who doesn’t smoke.”

“I don’t fuc—freaking smoke. It’s my goddamn voice!”

Miles shrugs, smirking and picking up a black spray can. “Multiverse, sure, but you can’t do this alone.”

“And why’s that?” He asks, standing up and tightening his grip on the pink spray can in his han— _ wait, why is it pink? _

“Because—” Miles groans, pulling a chair towards the wall and jumping on it. “You, don’t even know the basics of graffiti. MJ told me that!”

“Excuse  _ you _ —since when do you and MJ talk without me there?”

“It’s called a phone. Try it.”

_ God _ , this is why he never did kids.

This is the exact reason why he never did kids.

The  _ sass _ , it’s worse than bantering with fucking Tony Stark.

“Okay, tone down that attitude—”

“You call  _ this _ an attitude, old man?”

“Yes, in fac—”

Aaron’s voice overtakes theirs, as he pockets his phone, and turns to face them with a sullen expression.

“Miles, I gotta go out of town, kid. Let’s get you home, we’ll do this some other day.” 

Peter stands quiet with his hands resting in his pockets while Miles looks at Aaron with an… angry, perhaps, expression. “But what ‘bout Peter? We brought him out here—”

Peter resists the urge to remind Miles that he’s  _ forty _ , while Miles is nothing but a vulnerable fifteen year-old.

“Peter will take himself home—”

“And I don’t have school tomorrow. I can’t do this any other day—”

“Miles, I gotta go, dude, someone’s gotta get you out of Brookly—”

“I will.”

Silence.

“...Will I?” Peter asks this time, unsure of his safety as Aaron glares at him, pursing his lips and pouting. “I’ve known you for  _ one  _ day, Parker.”

“I’m not a kidnapper. I’ll just drop him off by his… house? Dorm? Where do you stay?”

Miles turns to him, beaming while also trying to keep his hurt expression to convince Aaron to let him stay. “Dorm, back in the high school.”

“I can’t let this random  _ guy _ _ —” _

“—Okay, that’s just rude, man—”

“—take you back at night! What will Jeff say?”

“He won’t know, come on uncle Aaron—I gotta draw  _ something _ .” Miles whines, one step away from stomping his feet and throwing a tantrum like a four year-old would do. Peter wouldn’t be surprised, and he might appreciate it since it  _ will _ buy himself and Miles some time.

Then he’s distracted by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching him, getting closer and closer as the seconds go by and he turns, there’s Aaron  _ running _ towards him and he’s trying to choose whether to fight or flight—

* * *

 

“Sorry about him. He’s a bit over-protective.” 

Peter brushes him off, busy trying to keep the boy steady on his shoulders. Miles is painting a small, blue planet, very much unlike Earth with no green or brown spots like satellite pictures usually show. There’s a smaller dark blue spot on it that he smears across the globe with his fingers, distinguishing it completely from Earth.

“And where’s that?”

Aaron might’ve disagreed at first. But at the end with  _ threats _ tossed at Peter’s direction and  _ warnings _ for Miles, he finally got on his too-familiar motorcycle, and drove away with a bag bulging with whatever he had stuffed in it.

After Aaron left, Peter noticed the Prowler’s suit was gone from where Aaron had hid it last time.

“You said you wanted to draw the multiverse, man. Let’s say that’s just another universe.”

Peter grins, letting Miles climb down and walk a few steps back to observe his work. 

“We’ve got space, we’ve got… seven planets. Seven universes. ”

“And how many are you going for?”

“Seven’s enough man—it’s getting late, I’ve got homework.” He says, glancing at his phone with a notification on the screen.

Miles in  _ this _ universe isn’t so different from the Miles he knew. He still has the same endless love for art like his Miles, and unsurprisingly is good at it. The graffiti on the wall with  _ expectations _ written across, isn’t so different from the one he briefly saw in the other universe.

Instead of the pinks and blues that Miles— _ his _ Miles—had used, this Miles had used a yellow color to write with, green and blue shadows in geometric shapes behind the word ‘ _ expectations’ _ .

Miles drops his spray can over to a pile of garbage, picks up his backpack, and just as Peter starts walking towards the exit of their little hideout, Miles stops, turning back to look at the graffiti on the wall.

Peter hates art with a passion.

Well, hate is a strong word.

It’s just the bad memories associated with art, he guesses, but at the same time Miles’ art is different. It’s… lively, young, it’s pressure and stress and all the negativity in his life spitted out on a mural with love and care.

A healthy way of venting, he supposes.

“You gonna stay there, kid?”

Miles runs a hand through his hair, laughs and takes a short step towards Peter.

“Nah—just—was thinking about it. The multiverse.”

“What about it?”

“Not much—just that, we—we learned about it in Physics. I mean, do you think it’s  _ real _ ?”

Does he? 

He went through one.

Or at least he thinks he did, the probability of Peter B. Parker, Spider-man actually going mad isn’t off the charts yet, that’s what MJ and him agreed on.

_ “At least, what’s good about this, is that you’re finally interacting with healthy people, right?” _

_ “Healthy fifteen year olds that I’ve never met, and their angry uncle.” _

_ MJ had laughed, a clear sound his ears are getting used to, and he’d be happy to say that. “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds… creepy, stupid, and idiotic.” _

_ “Pretty sure you just said the same word thrice. It is, idiotic, however.” _

_ MJ put her hand on his shoulder, brushed her hand through his birdnest hair, calming the forests of Amazon that had formed upon his head. She pressed a kiss against his forehead, and then went to work with a “It’s helping you. I’m already seeing it.” _

Thinking about it now, maybe it’s actually worsening the situation.

Peter scoffs, shrugging. “I don’t know. It seems like bullsh—”  _ Sigh. _ “—shhh….ake. But, at the same time I’m diggin’ it. I like the concept.”

Miles doesn’t reply, turns back to watch the mural again, and the skips over to his side. 

“Yeah, I guess the concept is cool enough—like, imagine if in another universe, you’re this rich, big guy that has the town under his control, and in this universe you’re a poor miserable guy diagnosed with HIV or Hepatitis—”

“ _ Why  _ HIV or Hepatitis, exactly?”

“They’re deadly! Super, deadly. And have cool names. Point is—you went from being this rich dude to a piece of dead meet! It’s cool. And terrifying. Sometimes I think about my identity in another universe and man… I imagine a Miles that is the biggest, and the best street artists, escaping all the cops—including his dad—, has a stable love li—”

* * *

 

While they’re on their way to the Visions Academy building, Miles points to a  _ big _ guy sitting on the ground, on a piece of wooden plate, a metal cup filled with cents next to him and a  torn up blanket only managing to cover his legs. 

...Fisk.

“That’s Wilson—Wilson Fisk.” Miles whispers, trying to walk on his toes so that he’s closer to Peter’s ears.

Generously, he leans down.

“We call him Will. Guy’s dangerous. Stabbed two persons, somehow made it back out on the streets… he had a small company, but it went bankrupt.”

“That’s what he says?”

“That’s what he  _ says _ . Even though he appeared just a few months ago in this neighborhood.”

“Strange—that’s weird.” Peter says, voice devoid of any empathy, and he crosses by the mess of a person on the ground.

Serves the bastard right for hurting so many people in another dimension.

Well, to be fair, it’s his multiverse  _ counterpart _ . But that doesn’t make  _ this _ Fisk any less evil to Peter, at least. 

His Miles was traumatized after Aaron got killed by the  _ other _ Fisk.

...He’ll never forget that.

They get to Miles’ dormitories a few minutes later, and the kid turns back, hand out for a handshake, and Peter tiredly yet eagerly takes it. 

“Good work today.”

“Yeah yeah—I’m talented.” He says cockily, rolling his eyes.

“You didn’t do anything other than lift me up to draw that Uranus-wannabe, Peter.”

He pouts, dropping Miles hands, unimpressed. and pursing his lips. Miles laughs—and it’s a rare sound to  _ Peter _ , someone who hadn’t heard the other Miles laugh much. He’d seen him cry over his uncle, be angry over Peter’s irresponsibility, but maybe only heard him laugh when he was around Gwen.

This was a nice change.

He smiles, defeatedly, and spins on his heels to catch the train, or at least find a safe spot to suit up and patrol.

“Get some sleep, kid.”

“Same time, tomorrow? Next week?”

“Next week. I’ll pick you up—with Aaron—”

“He’ll be out of town.” Miles shouts as Peter keeps walking away, and he only brings his hand up to brush the kid off. “Yeah yeah— I’ll pick you up  _ myself _ , go to bed, Miles.”

Miles shouts something else, but Peter doesn’t hear it, doesn’t turn back to hear it, and goes off on his way towards the station.

Although, he’d like to visit somewhere else first.

* * *

 

He stops by where Miles had showed him ‘Will’, the failure of a businessman, a criminal, and a homeless, absolutely miserable man.. A closer look reveals an ugly torn up suit—one  _ very _ similar to the one the other Fisk wore. 

_ Too _ , similar.

Smirking, he kneels, grabs the man by his ear, jolting him out of sleep as he lets out a yell. Before Wilson can throw a punch, the man gasps, as if he’s finally recognizing Peter. Well, not the Peter he killed. But a Peter that  _ knows _ what he’s done,  _ seen _ what he’s done.

Miles really threw him into another universe, didn’t he? 

_ God _ , he’s so proud.

He leans in, tilts his head, with a smug grin that you  _ could _ say it’s evil, and with satisfaction boiling inside of him, he whispers. 

“How does it feel like to lose  _ everything _ you’ve ever had, Fisk?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmmm fisk get w r e c k e d


End file.
